Paperclip Rhapsody
by Busby's Teapot
Summary: A passionate feud turned office un-romance. With childish insults and absolutely no peace or work getting done in the office, you would thing the team leader would do something about it, but no, Elizabeta just wants to enjoy all the sexual tension. FrUK Oneshot.


**A/N: The inspiration for this stuck me rather suddenly over the weekend and unlike all the other half completed stories that are sat festering in the 'My Documents' folder, I actually completed it!**

**Manon is my name for Belgium.**

**There are many, many references of vary degrees of obscurity, which I do not own, but cookies to those who spot them. Regrettably I don't own Hetalia either. **

**Warning: Swearing, innuendo, drunkenness and copious amounts of denial.**

**I hope you enjoy!**

**~Teapot**

* * *

**Paperclip Rhapsody**

_**An Office Un-Romance**_

_**By Busby's Teapot**_

'So when should I arrange the initial for?' Manon asked with a pleasant smile. She glanced down at the open page of her diary as she awaited a response.

Nothing.

She looked back up to her colleague who seemed a little preoccupied with something in the direction of the lifts.

'Francis?'

He whipped his head back to her, blond hair flying about in a manner that still managed to be elegant (as anything involving the Frenchman was wont to do).

'Oh, erm... Tuesday,' he answered, absentminded.

She smirked, 'Francis, today is Tuesday.'

Coughing awkwardly, he mumbled an uncharacteristically sheepish reply, 'Heh, so it is, fancy that.'

Withholding a giggle, the blonde waited for Francis to move along before directing a look over towards the lifts.

The only person she could see standing there however was a sort-of cute young man with messy hair and a drab suit.

Maybe the person had moved on, or maybe, just maybe...

Unbeknownst to the man be the lift, Manon's smile became wicked and cat like.

Oh she would so mention this to Elizabeta...

* * *

The man it turned out was called Arthur and after a week Francis could not (or would not) for the life of him tell anybody what it was about the man that blindsided him so on the boring Tuesday. For starters, he was an irritable, serial tea drinker of a Brit with humongous eyebrows and the dress sense of a closeted fifty-plus university professor.

Admittedly his eyes were a gorgeous shade of green, though of course Francis was being purely objective about them, and his hair wasn't bad, even if it looked as if he'd never seen a comb.

Not to mention that the man seemed to have a personal vendetta against the Frenchman.

Honestly, all he had done was ask for a date, there was no need to reject him so cruelly! Or hide all the espresso sachets for the fancy break room coffee machine. Or 'accidentally' spill ink all over his expensive silk shirt. Or super-glue a crude model of a phallus to his desk that _would not move_.

So maybe he hadn't been entirely innocent in this endeavour. Maybe he had stapled his tie to his desk at some point. Maybe he had switched his nice tea for some shitty supermarket's own version. Maybe he had sewn enormous felt black eyebrows to his brown laptop bag.

Still didn't stop Arthur from being a twat, did it?

* * *

'And then the insufferable slimy prat had the gall to try and grope my arse!'

Manon gave an obviously staged gasp despite the knowing smile playing on her lips. Arthur felt slightly bad for venting this to her (and he couldn't quite think what had provoked it) but the girl was an avid listener and pretty enough to surely have been at the much loathed receiving end of the bastard's incorrigible advances.

'And what about your answer to my original question?'

By now, the Belgian girl had given up on hiding her smile and stood beside the kettle looking outright amused.

'Which was?'

'Would you like sugar in your tea?'

He gave a sheepish laugh, tugging at the buttons on the cuff of his tweed jacket.

'Oh err right, sorry. I just have milk, thanks.'

'Well here you go,' she said, passing him the mug. 'I daresay it's cooled enough to drink now.'

With a saucy wink, she flounced out the room with her hot chocolate, leaving Arthur with his tea in hand and a brilliant blush on his face.

* * *

'And anyway Monsieur Smarty-pants I think you'll find that frogs are not slimy, they are in fact covered in mucus.'

'Still doesn't make you any less disgusting, you giant bogey.'

Gilbert groaned, he may have been friends with Arthur and largely tolerated Francis, and he was usually glad for distractions to keep his awesome self from work, but this was ridiculous! He could barely hear his awesome thoughts. Or his mother. Not that he actually wanted to hear her.

'Bertie, what is going on out there?'

'Nothing.'

'It doesn't sound like nothing.'

Gilbert sighed as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, 'Just the guy in the next office along and someone he really should be boning having another domestic.'

'Gilbert don't speak in such vulgar terms!'

'Sorry,' he muttered, 'What did you want anyway?'

'I wanted to know who you're bringing to the Edelstein dinner, that delightful Canadian friend of yours? Oh what was his name?'

'Matthew, Mum, his name is Matthew,' Gilbert sighed. 'And no he won't be there, he's a conservationist remember? He's in the Amazon at the moment.'

'Okay dear, just make sure to bring someone. Roderich and his lovely boyfriend will be there.'

His awesomely scathing and witty response was cut off as the argument in the next room reached a peak.

'How dare you! I'll have you know that tweed jackets are very cool indeed!'

'Says who?'

'He does actually!'

'Oh really now?'

'Yeah so you can take your fancy smancy 'designer' shit and shove it up your arse!'

'I bet I can think of something else you'd like to stick there.'

Gilbert shuddered, he could practically feel the suggestion crawling in his skin.

'Pervy bastard,' he mumbled to himself.

'Yeah this stapler now get the fuck out!'

There was the sound of the door slamming then blissful silence.

The albino watched through his window as the blond ran over to Antonio to bitch about it.

'Really Gilbert the people in your office have such appalling behaviour.'

He withheld a groan and the overwhelming urge to slam his head against the desk. The least the noisy fuckers could have done was get him out of the rest of the phone call with his mother.

* * *

Arthur wasn't so immature that he could not admit that, if you looked past his peculiar temper and his slimy - sorry, _mucusy_ - charm, Francis was quite the catch. Unfortunately the Frenchman never showed Arthur anything but his ugly argumentative and childish side, to which he retaliated accordingly.

Even he was slightly uncertain as to how his simple, albeit rather harsh (though not undeservedly so) rejection of Francis' offer of a date had developed into such a passionate feud. It also frustrated him greatly that whilst in the company of others he could dazzle them with his insightful arguments and sharp wit, yet with Francis, he degenerated into using childish insults and cursing until he was blue in the mouth.

The only consolation he found in the matter was vindictive pleasure as he found the Frenchman suffered from something similar.

And, despite the constant criticisms of his appearance, he still pulled regularly when he went out with Gilbert or Alfred.

And he absolutely did not find himself comparing people to see if their eyes were the right shade of blue.

Because that would be utterly ridiculous and imply that the impassioned nature of his relationship with Francis was something other than hate.

Ha, as if!

* * *

Francis was having a delightful conversation with Manon and Antonio. It was the office Christmas party and at Elizabeta's insistence, it was a literary themed costume party.

Francis, true to his French roots, was dressed as a dashing musketeer, with a fabulous feathered hat that rested on the table beside him.

Antonio was having great fun as Sir Lancelot, charming all the ladies with his knight in shining armour routine.

Manon looked rather unremarkable by comparison, having chosen out of a lack of time to come as her namesake, the character from Jean de Florette and its sequel. Francis had of course complimented her for her great taste in French literature, though her outfit was made of creams and neutrals and did little for her wondrous curvy figure.

And just as he was finishing his delightful anecdote about a rather entertaining and thoroughly satisfying tarts and vicars party that he had attended during his year of study at Edinburgh, they arrived.

Bursting open, the doors to the room revealed three figures.

'Chill mofos the Captain is in the house!'

The loud blond to the centre of the group held his arms up, the round shield on his arm glinting in the light. He was flanked by a grinning Gilbert and a scowling Arthur.

'Shut the fuck up Alfred,' he said menacingly.

The man, Alfred, just ignored him, laughing incredibly annoyingly and throwing his arm around the Englishman's shoulders.

Francis was quite he sure he would not like such an uncouth human being.

Gilbert flounced off to go see Elizabeta, most likely to go show off his rather inventive 'Dorian Gray's Picture' costume (complete with gilt wood frame).

Arthur and his noisy friend made their way across to the drinks table, where they happened to be standing, giving Francis the chance to study their costumes as they neared. Alfred, who talked incessantly the whole way over, revealed himself to be an American and was predictably dressed as Captain America (who was, Francis noted with chagrin, _not_ a literary character).

Francis was rather disappointed with Arthur's unimaginative choice of costume, that of a fairly generic pirate. Not that he was going to argue with the striking red coat, the charming billowing cream shirt and - sacré bleu were those leather trousers?

Upon reaching them, Arthur gave an expression that seemed stuck somewhere between a smirk and a scowl that made his eyebrows look most unbecoming.

'Hi, I'm Alfred, Arthur's friend, pleased to meet ya!' Alfred said, oblivious to Arthur's muttered 'God knows why'.

Politely, Antonio and Manon introduced themselves, whilst Francis dragged his eyes up and down that blue bodysuit appraisingly.

'If you'll forgive my bluntness, Alfred, _cher_, but I was unaware Captain America had featured in the world of literature,' Francis said, his tone deceptively pleasant.

'Hell yeah, he's in comic _books_ duh!' Was the oh-so intelligent retort.

'They're hardly literature, are they? Just pictures with words.'

He'd dropped most of the veneer of manners, since this man made Arthur look like royalty he was so uncivilised.

Amusedly, Arthur and Manon regarded the pair while Antonio drained another glass of sangria and helped himself to some more.

'They are too! I see people here in children's book costumes getting away with it and they're a less mature take on a similar concept!'

'Who said I was distinguishing?' The Frenchman asked, raising a curious eyebrow in that elegant manner he had down to an art form.

'Artie!' Alfred suddenly whined. 'Francis is calling my comic books childish!'

For reasons unknown to him, Francis felt a twist of anger in his stomach as he watched Alfred turn to Arthur and wind his arms around him as he pleaded for sympathy.

Surprisingly for the other two there, Arthur just smirked at Francis whilst patting Alfred's head condescendingly. 'Of course he is Alfred, what full grown man still reads books with lots of pictures?'

Alfred gasped loudly, 'Arthur, how could you? I shall go find Kiku, he works here right? At least he won't disparage my reading material!'

With that he disappeared off into the crowd, leaving Arthur, Francis and Manon behind.

'Your friend is an...interesting character,' Manon said, looking slightly bemused by what had just happened.

'I'm just amazed he knows the word 'disparage' and how to correctly use it in a sentence,' Arthur muttered.

'He doesn't seem quite that stupid,' Francis replied.

'He's not stupid per se, rather, ignorant.'

'Ah.'

The trio lapsed into a mildly uncomfortable silence, the kind that develops as those involved try to search for a new conversation topic, only to have their mind wiped as all they can focus on is the ever expanding pause.

Patting her drab cardigan's pockets, Manon let out a small murmur of discontent. 'Oh shoot, I must have left my phone in my coat pocket, mind if I just go get it?'

'Not at all,' Arthur replied graciously. After a moment's pause as she turned to go, he quickly shrugged off his long red pirate coat, 'Could you please do me the enormous favour of putting this in the cloakroom?'

She grinned and nodded, slipping the coat over her forearm and weaving her way towards the room being used as a cloakroom.

Francis opened his mouth to address his favourite adversary to find his words cut off. Arthur had turned to the table and was leaning over to reach the whiskey, giving the other blond a perfect view of his delectable derriere in those skin-tight trousers. Oh he could just bite it. If it wouldn't get him a black eye, at best that is.

'Nice trousers,' he commented, cursing himself afterwards for the strange uneasiness in his tone. 'Leather, eh? Never would have pictured you to be the type. Much too tight to be sensible.'

Arthur pulled back and smirked at him confidently. Leaning close, so his breath barely brushed Francis' cheek, he said, 'I'll let you in with a secret, they may look tight, but there always seems to be room for one more.'

Francis smiled, hiding how disconcerted he felt at being on the receiving end from suggestive comments from none other than Arthur.

'Is that an offer?' He asked, leaning closer so he could see the shimmering flecks of gold that danced in those green eyes.

Thin lips almost brushed his ear and Francis' breath absolutely did not hitch in anticipation.

'You wish love.'

In one fluid motion, Arthur pulled away and stole Francis' feathered hat from the table, placing it atop his head as he flounced over to Gilbert, laughing at the expense of the speechless Frenchman he left behind.

And Francis just stood there, wine in hand, wondering when the hell Arthur had become so attractive.

* * *

Elizabeta loved her team, she really did. There was never a boring moment, that was for sure. However, she had long since learned to tune out the many, many arguments between Arthur and Francis, instead preferring to revel in the palpable sexual tension between them.

Though something had changed recently, something that increased the electricity tenfold.

Take that moment for example, she was concealed beneath the table in the break room, obscured by a chair (for a completely innocent reason of course and not because she hoped to catch out any of her colleagues doing illicit acts up against the wall or anything) when Arthur came in, closely followed by Francis.

'So what do you say?'

Turning around from the tea he had started preparing, he fixed Francis with an unreadable look, quirking one of those enormous brows.

'Really? After last time?'

'What?' The blond asked with a shrug of the shoulders and a carefully innocent look.

'Francis,' Arthur began in a deadpan tone, 'We bumped into you for an hour and you insulted me the entire time and scared away that gorgeous Dutch boy with whom I had been making much progress.'

Elizabeta had to shove her fist in her mouth to quell her squeal. Francis was jealous! Not only that, but she now had definite knowledge that Arthur was gay (not that she hadn't been almost entirely convinced anyway what with the UST with Francis and the fact no straight man could ever wear leather trousers _that_ tight).

Waving his hand nonchalantly, the Frenchman, ever one for dramatics, exclaimed, 'Oh please! You could do so much better mon petit chou-fleur!'

Arthur smirked wickedly, 'Oh really? Like you, you mean?'

'Maybe.'

Planting his hands either side of Arthur, he leaned in until the Brit's back was almost touching the counter top.

Elizabeta was unsure of whether or not she could taste blood, but she didn't care.

Arthur was now a brilliant shade of red.

This just kept on getting better and better.

'What would you say to that?' He breathed huskily.

'You and me? Utterly preposterous.' He really didn't sound convinced, especially as his gaze was flitting between Francis' lips and his darkened eyes.

Effectively shattering the haze of lust that had settled in the room, the door opened and Gilbert sauntered in. He paid no heed to the pair that sprang apart as if burned, instead searching in the fridge for something.

Francis quickly left the room and upon checking his tea, Arthur followed suit just as hastily.

'Hey Liz, having fun down there?' He said calmly before leaving, juice in hand.

Letting out a sigh of relief, the brunette slouched down, gently massaging her abused hand.

Oh yes, how she loved her office. Of course she was now going to have to beat Gilbert up for ruining a wonderful moment.

* * *

Francis wasn't sure what had happened, it was one of those things that, to paraphrase Jane Austen, had been coming on so gradually he'd hardly noticed.

One minute he was quite certain he despised the mere thought of Arthur and the next he was left breathless upon sighting his form entering the office. And that was with him still dressed in that unfashionable manner, though those tweed jackets were rather more charming than the eyesore he had once considered them to be.

To put it simply, he was utterly entranced.

Unfortunately, he could not seem to break the rut they had entered into of argument after argument. However, he had noticed the exchanged verbal barbs had considerably less venom, taking on the familiar nature of any default manner of exchange between two parties.

Entranced was what he stuck to, because he should not, could not, _would not_, fall for such a man.

As Arthur had said it was utterly preposterous.

* * *

Standing in a corner brooding, Arthur questioned why Elizabeta had taken it upon herself to organise a work night out. Wasn't making a drunken prat of yourself once a year at the Christmas party enough? Evidently not.

It wasn't that Arthur disliked anyone in his office in particular (except for the obvious of course), but Gilbert (his best friend alongside Alfred, boy could he pick them) had taken it upon himself to get 'the flu' as he figured skipping a night out would be a good way to convince his mother that he was genuinely ill that week and therefore would, most regrettably, be unable to make this month's Edelstein dinner. He was an idiotic bastard. He should know by now his mother was fucking psychic, go and enjoy a night of drunken shenanigans and then suffer through the dinner like a real man.

With this thought in mind, he expressed this to Gilbert via text in a succinct manner.

'You're a pussy.'

Normally he wouldn't resort to using Alfred-speak, but it seemed appropriate.

Slipping his phone back into his pocket, which was quite some feat given he was holding a glass and he had chosen to wear his skin-tight leather trousers again as he knew they had a rather amusing effect on Frog-breath, he flicked his eyes across the dark, sweaty dance floor.

His eyes honed in on one figure in particular as he took in another mouthful of his rum and coke, the watered down cheap soft drink doing nothing to dull the burn of the alcohol as it caught the back of his throat. A lithe figure in a snug fitting silky black shirt (that had probably cost about a month's wages) was moving smoothly in a stark contrast to the harsh pounding beat and erratic strobe lighting, blond her shimmering in the darkness like a halo.

Arthur threw back the rest of his drink, closing his eyes as he did so. Those were dangerous thoughts, dangerous thoughts indeed.

Weaving his way through the throng, he made his way to the bar, his intention now to drown his traitorous mind in alcohol.

Manon appeared beside him after he'd flagged down the bartender and he ordered her a drink as well.

'You doing okay?' She asked shouting to be heard over the din and with an earnest concern in her green eyes.

'Yeah fine,' he replied back, just as loudly, deciding not to burden her or his throat with his preference for bars and the fact Gilbert was a complete wuss. 'You look nice tonight.'

And she did, with simple makeup and a tight navy blue dress that went down to her knees, but with a neckline that flattered her rather generous cleavage, she had certainly drawn some eyes.

She pinked a little at the compliment but gave a small laugh and a thank you.

'You're looking good yourself,' she said with a smile. 'Why you don't wear those trousers more often, I don't know.'

Arthur snorted, 'Well they're not exactly suitable work attire now, are they?'

Manon gave a suggestive wink, 'I don't think you'd hear many arguments.'

The bartender then arrived with their drinks and with another wink and that knowing cat-like smile of hers she disappeared back into the mass of dancing bodies.

Two hours and thirty pounds worth of drinks later (which admittedly wasn't all that much, given the extortionate price of drinks), Arthur was seeing the world through a pleasant haze as it throbbed and danced around him and the bar seemed to _keep bloody moving_. Several concerned colleagues had spoken with him and had left incredibly amused (Arthur figured they were laughing at themselves for being blind to the pretty fairies, and the leprechaun on the bar stool a few feet away).

'Fer the last feckin' time, I'm no' a leprechaun.'

Arthur giggled and moved to pat the man on the shoulder, 'Don't worry O'Sullivan, I'll keep your secret,' he stage whispered, 'I know you're incognito.'

The man sighed heavily, downing the remainder of his whiskey and moving away, muttering something about 'feckin' drunken idiots'.

Tittering inanely to himself, he parted with another ten pound note then pouted as he realised he only had twenty left in his wallet (forgetting the mass of change that had accumulated in his pocket).

Whilst he gazed forlornly into his wallet, it occurred to him that he had not yet heard back from that silly-billy Gilbert and so he put his money away and pulled out his phone.

Occupied with replying to his friend's rather offensive message, a difficult task given his inability to hit the right place on the onscreen keyboard, he failed to notice another presence until the clammy breath could be felt on his neck and hefty arms snaked their way around his waist.

'Hey Ollie,' the strange man sighed happily.

'Gerroff,' he slurred, jostling about in the vice-like grip. ''M not Ollie, 'm Arthur.'

'Don' be silly Bunny, I'd know tha' cute arse anywhere,' came the husky whisper in his ear. Three things resonated clearly in Arthur's foggy mind at that moment. One, this man was very strong; two, he was very drunk and three, he was not likely to be able to get out of this situation easily. Fortunately, this only seemed to be a case of mistaken identity, as the man would surely move on when he realised that Arthur was not Ollie. He didn't seem to be an unreasonable chap, after all, he called his boyfriend 'Bunny'.

'Really 'm not,' he said, 'Please let go.'

The grip loosened. 'Bunny?' Arthur felt a pang go through him at the man's wounded tone. ''S somethin' wrong coz I'll fix it,'ll always fix it for you Bunny.'

Of course it was at that moment the age old Sod's Law came into play and Francis, spotting Arthur's look of discomfort, was over there like a shot.

'What ze 'ell do you think you are doing?!' He demanded, his accent coming through strongly in his distress.

'Sayin' hello to my Bunny.'

Francis snarled. 'Let 'im go, 'e iz not yours!'

The Englishman stared wide eyed and bewildered as the man tried to manoeuvre him so the Frenchman could not tug him from his grasp.

'No!' He cried. 'Stop! He's my Ollie!'

''e's not your Ollie, 'e's _my_ Arthur!'

At Francis' exclamation, a silence seemed to fall over the three men that not even the deafening music could permeate.

Abruptly dropping Arthur, the man stepped away, as a strangled 'what?' escaped the smaller man's mouth and Francis stared at the floor, aghast.

Upon realising his mistake, the man apologised and picked Arthur up off the floor, propping him up on the bar.

'There you go mate,' he muttered. He held back his offer of a drink by way of apology and instead dropped a ten pound note beside Arthur, then moved away, most likely searching for his Ollie a bit more carefully.

Francis had yet to speak, and Arthur watched him closely; he looked horrified and drained and so utterly unlike himself that in Arthur's drink-addled mind it was quite terrifying and had only one real solution.

Inelegantly, he lurched forward and placed a searing kiss on the other blond's lips before pulling back and giving a short decisive nod as if to tell himself that was the right thing to do. Francis just stood there looking completely dumbfounded.

'M gonna go home now,' he decided out loud and he downed his drink in one, grabbed the note and headed for the door, focusing on walking in a straight line and trying really hard to ignore the sober voice in the back of his head telling him work was going to be as awkward as fuck on Monday.

* * *

Antonio sighed to himself. The office was quiet today, that usually meant that either Arthur, Francis or Gilbert were absent, but unusually, all were present.

Gilbert was sulking in his office, muttering bitterly under his breath about something; Arthur could be seen in his office, just resting his head on the desk and Francis was moping at his desk across from Antonio, spinning his chair around and sighing morosely whilst acting as if he wasn't sneaking subtle glances at Arthur every thirty seconds.

Antonio had no idea what had happened on Friday (he had spent most of the night and all of Saturday with a charming little Italian brunet) but Francis had been acting all depressed when he saw him on Sunday.

Not even his special cheer charm had worked.

However as soon as his ears picked up on the very soft music seeping from the slightly ajar door to Arthur's office and he registered that the song was one of those sweet quirky love songs by some old British artist that Antonio knew Francis had a secret affection for, he smiled to himself and decided he would wait until his friend needed to go to the bathroom so he could follow him and get answers.

He didn't have to wait long.

Francis sighed again and dragged himself up from his seat and towards the male toilets in the far right corner as if everything was a great effort.

Slipping into the stealth cat mode he had seen Elizabeta use before, he echoed his friend's movements; glad he was too lethargic to either notice or acknowledge him.

As soon as they were both inside, he backed the surprised blond against the wall and demanded, 'Tell me what is wrong, amigo.'

Francis stumbled for words in an uncharacteristic manner until he eventually managed a defeated sounding, 'I told Arthur how I feel about him.'

Antonio smiled, waiting for the Frenchman to expand. Happily, he noted times had moved on from Arthur being called 'a bastard, a highly attractive bastard, but a bastard no less' and the hour long rants listing his many faults (and his few virtues as though they were faults also).

'Well not so much my feelings, but declared him as mine. And then he kissed me.'

Confusion sent Antonio's brow swooping down. 'But then why haven't you got him bent over his desk making sweet passionate love?'

Francis looked at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head.

'Because he was drunk!' He cried as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. At his friend's continued perplexed expression he gave a dramatic sigh and threw his hands up in defeat.

'And he hasn't said anything,' he added in a softer tone. 'Which means it means nothing to him.'

'Oh mi amigo,' he sighed, wrapping Francis up in his arms. 'He just may have forgotten. You should remind him.'

The blond gave a sharp bitter laugh, 'And what? Get punched?'

Antonio thought about making some comment about what would follow and how technically with Arthur, all the sex would wind up being makeup sex (which as we all is supposedly the best sex around).

Leaving Francis finally able to use the toilet, he slipped out the door, walking past Arthur's office, where he was now banging his head with the steady mantra of 'Idiot, idiot, idiot'.

He rolled his eyes and moved back to his desk.

The pair of them were completely hopeless.

It was after Francis had settled himself back at his desk and Antonio was in the middle of something that Arthur came out of his office, his face an odd mixture of anger and amazement; his mouth open in a permanent gasp and his eyebrows knitted together in a way that Antonio thought made him look like a hairy bird had crashed into his forehead.

To everyone's surprise, he passed by Francis' desk, pausing only briefly to say,

'I don't make a habit of being anyone's but my own.'

Watching after him, Francis' mouth was agape and his blue eyes filled with something unreadable.

As he reached the break room door, he paused and turned around.

* * *

Arthur wouldn't say it because it wasn't true.

Yes he would begrudgingly admit he held the man in a somewhat high regard, but that was all.

And yes if you plied him with copious amounts of alcohol you might get him to confess to finding the man ridiculously attractive.

But kill that other thought.

Not true.

If he was being completely honest with himself (which was something he generally avoided for fear of what he might find), Arthur would have to say that he never truly despised the man.

Still didn't make it true though.

And maybe recently his thoughts unconsciously compared flings to one person in particular, one person with whom nothing had ever happened.

It made no difference. It meant nothing.

So what if he plagued his thoughts, left him breathless when nearby and made his heart jutter about?

Really, it was nothing.

He wouldn't say it because it wasn't true.

Oh fuck it. He couldn't keep this up much longer.

He was fooling no one, himself included.

He, Arthur Kirkland, was just the tiniest, slightest bit in love with Francis Bonnefoy.

But still, in the scheme of things, it didn't mean anything much.

Ah fuck.

* * *

'Except your slimy self seems to have worked its way in there.'

Drifting into his ear, the words took a moment or two to settle and for their meaning to register before he was over at the break room, blue eyes determined.

Arthur kept his back to him, nonchalantly continuing to prepare his cup of tea.

The silence rested there, expanding, growing heavy with each passing minute and neither of them acknowledging the issue.

Eventually, as the kettle clicked off the boil, Arthur spoke.

'Please tell me you meant it.' A statement, unwavering, yet with a strange pleading quality.

Francis swallowed thickly, ignoring the way his heart started to pound at such a rate he was certain Arthur could hear it.

'Only if you return the feeling,' he said in a measured tone.

Arthur stayed at the kettle, playing with his tea as it steeped. His tone remained the careful one that gave nothing much away. Francis wished he could see that face.

'And if I don't?'

'It slipped out in a desperate moment to help you.'

Slowly, he turned around, though his eyes were fixed on the floor.

'I do.'

The words were so quiet Francis barely heard them over the gentle hum of activity from the office outside.

With one swift step he was before Arthur and tilting his head up to peer into those verdant green eyes.

'Oh Arthur,' he breathed, 'I meant it.'

And then their lips connected, and it wasn't quite as soft or sweet as it could have been, it was all tongues and teeth with thumping hearts and frantic hands.

But oh, how that was unimportant, it was perfect in its own way.

Because he was Arthur's and Arthur was his.

And there was nothing more wonderful than that moment right there, in the cramped old break room...

A squeal caused them to break apart suddenly, turning in horror to the open door at which their entire office seemed to have gathered.

And apparently everyone else now knew.

Oy vey.

'Oh my gosh, _finally_!'

* * *

**FIN**


End file.
